Take the indian out of the child
by Ilven
Summary: Historical fic; centered around Indian residential schools in Canada. Slight OOC


_June 11, 2008_

Canada was sharply dressed for a special occasion.

His black suit crisp and not a wrinkle in sight, his tie expertly made, and his hair not a strand out of place. A cup of strong, black coffee was given to him a few minutes ago to freshen up and heighten his senses. Not that it was necessary of course, as he was anticipating the upcoming moments for a while now. But none of that was important. What was important would be the upcoming next minutes.

He had never thought this occasion would happen, at least not eighty years ago.

_When eighty years ago_, he thought, _I was such a different person. What happened?_

As of three o'clock today, he will be witnessing Stephen Harper, the Prime minster of Canada, as he reads out an official apology for a crime he had committed decades ago, but not forgotten.

* * *

_August 21, 1871 _

"-and so, with the sighing of this treaty, you will give us permission to hunt and trap animals in your territories, for as long as we uphold our side of the agreement."

Gathered around a single man, were over fifty leaders of the Ojibwa tribes, each of them listening to that man, but perhaps not fully understanding him. After all, the interpreters failed to translate half of the English words into _Ojibwemowin._

On the other side of the gathering, stands a dozen or so English officers, also listening to the man speaking. For them, they could care less for their portion of the agreement, as long as they got more land, they are satisfied.

Amidst these Englishmen, stood a youthful Canada. Beside him, was a lady in traditional Indian attire.

"Are you sure they can't see us?" asked Canada.

"I'm sure," replied the lady. "Now quiet down and listen."

Canada huffed and returned his gaze towards the gathering. But it could not hold his attention for long, as he then asked, "Can they hear us then?"

"No."

"How? I mean, I still don't trust your strange spirit magi-"

"Just listen," the lady scolded.

"But it's boring!" Canada pursed his lips. "Why are you bringing me here anyways?"

She turned to face him. Her demeanor was unusually stiff, so Canada thought it was weird. She then turned to face the crowd of people.

"I want you to remember this," she explained. "Not this meeting, but 'this' in general."

She paused for a bit, the continued; "You see, I don't particularly trust England, or any of these Englishmen. I fear that they will bring hardships for my people in years to come."

She then locked her eyes with Canada's. "I heard from Inuit a few months ago. She told me they managed to wipe the entire Beothuk people clean. Every one of them. Dead."

Canada stared at her, disbelieving. "What? You're lying. England never told me that."

"And why do you think he never told you that?" she snapped. "If he told you that, then you'd hate him. And if you hate him, you won't be the obedient little colony that believes every damn word he says." Canada was taken aback. The lady then took his silence as means to continue.

"That's besides the point. I'm showing you this because I want you to remember the pact you made with my people. So in the future, I won't have to worry about the mistreatment of my people."

By now, the gathering was starting to disperse. Words of congratulations were exchanged, but even Canada could hear the underlying tone of greed in the Englishmen's words of gratitude.

"Canada, can you promise me one thing? I want you to protect my people. Do you think you can do that?"

Canada contemplated her words, then nodded.

* * *

_January 5, 1925_

Canada had been informed that, for the entirety of one week, he will be visiting Alberta. His boss, William Lyon Mackenzie, had promptly told him overnight, to begin packing up for the trip. It was not until morning, that he told him why.

"_A new school will open in the area that you will be staying. I want you to see the opening ceremony."_

_Canada stared, incredulously, at his boss._

"_I also want you to check up on some other schools while you're there," Lyon continued. "I could ask someone over there to send back a report, but I feel that first-hand approval by you is important. Especially if we want this system to work effectively. _

_Now, a small selection of people will be awaiting you in Alberta. I want you to go under your alias, Matthew Williams. I will inform them that someone by that name will be inspecting their schools."_

So now, adorned a fine fur coat and hat, with black leather gloves, Canada glanced out of his carriage's frosted window. The school he was told to visit, whose name he had long forgotten, is located far from the main industrial hub in central Alberta.

_Ahh…it's in the town of Lac la Biche, isn't it?_

He cannot recall, but he has been told that the town is fairly new, and most of its people use horse drawn carriages as means of transportation. Automobiles were seldom seen.

His boss had wanted him to ride in a fine luxurious car, but Canada doubted there would be refueling stations nearby, and he did not want to shoulder the trouble of transporting fuel with him. Instead, he convinced his chauffeur to ready a couple of strong horses to traverse the long journey from Ontario to the western prairies. Lyon Mackenzie then agreed, only under the condition that Canada would bring along the Mounted Police force with him.

"For safety measures," Lyon had said. "I am well aware that you are more than capable taking care of yourself, but bring them just in case."

* * *

His carriage reached the town before noon. Now, as he steps out of his carriage's snow-laden door, he stretches and breathes of sigh of satisfaction. Standing in front of him is a worn-down brick building, which had formerly been a church. A tall cross sits proudly on top of the shake roof, which has been partially covered by a layer of snow. Long strands of grass stood solemnly by themselves, yellowed and dead. Overgrown trees can be seen behind the building, and cobblestone paths bore thick, slippery sheets of ice.

The building was large however, and that was what mattered.

Outside the door, stood an elderly man with a brown overcoat and top hat. As Canada approached him, the man took off his hat and bowed.

"Mister Williams," he acknowledged.

Greetings were exchanged and followed by small pleasantries, as the man introduced himself as Lester Thompson, Principal of Lac Biche Residential School.

"If you will allow, we will start the tour," he offered.

As Canada stepped inside the building, the first thing he noticed was the lack of warmth. Figuratively and actually speaking. Perhaps it was the grim atmosphere of winter that gave the place a depressing feel, but it certainly did contribute to the chilling temperature inside.

He couldn't help but notice the lack of firewood inside the fireplace.

He was shown the main entry of the first floor, then the lobby. There were more than a dozen of small classrooms on that floor. Canada took a gander inside one of the rooms, and saw tables and chairs cramped together with little room left. A lone blackboard hung on the wall, and only a sliver of light came from the arched window at the back of the classroom.

There were no students in sight, only a few teachers here and there.

"Our students will be attending school next week," Thompson took out a worn out piece of paper and read out: "Core subjects will include English Literature, Mathematics, Sciences, and so on. Every dorm will house seven children, and they will be given two square meals a day; breakfast and supper."

"I trust your teachers have been informed of the curriculum?" Canada asked, nonchalant.

"Informed and well-prepared," he huffed offhandedly. "I assure sir, that our teachers know what they are doing. These kids will be walking out of these doors with not a memory of their _Indian selves_._"_ he emphasized.

"Most of our students will come from a nearby Cree community," he continued. "A few Lubicon students will be transferring from Blue Quill's to this school. A small band of Kepaweino children will also b-"

"Kapawe'no," Canada interrupted. "It's Kapawe'no, sir."

"_Yes,_" Thompson grounded out. "These _Kapawe'no_ children, as well as some _O'Chiese _will be given extra workload for all the years they missed proper education." He stopped in front of a frosted glass door, and rummaged through his coat for keys. "Now sir, I will show you the courtyard."

"This way," he twisted the knob open, and gestured Canada to follow.

For the rest of the tour, Canada remained indifferent. He had no reason to engage himself in the tour, was all the same as the ones in Ontario; the same atmosphere, classrooms, teachers, and general attitude. Except maybe, he preferred the ones back home.

By late afternoon, the tour was over, and Canada was lead to the front foyer. The two men shook hands, and said their goodbyes. But before Canada could turn around, Thompson quickly added, "Don't you worry sir, I am quite confident that, by the end of this century, all aboriginals will be stripped of their nonsense _Indian lifestyles,_" he stressed out that last part.

Canada only nodded in approval, and stepped inside his carriage.

* * *

_February 20, 1925_

This day had been particularly cold. Canada had thought the weather would have warmed up by now, but he has been proven otherwise.

It has been nearly two months since his first arrival in Alberta, and today's stop would be the last, which he was relieved for. His previous compulsory visits were all like that first school. Their headmasters and headmistresses praised and glorified their schools, while Canada stayed impassive throughout the tour.

This last school is supposedly in Wabasca, in northern Alberta.

When he arrived, the headmaster introduced himself, and lead him inside the school. It was mid-afternoon, and classrooms were filled with aboriginal students. He was lead into a few classes, and teachers promptly stopped their teachings to greet their guest. Most of the time, the students stayed quiet, and stared intensely at Canada, but was berated by their teachers for their 'lack of respect'. Canada dismissed them.

By the time their tour ended, it was nearing evening, and students were making their way to the dining room for supper. The headmaster insisted Canada to join them, but he shook his head.

"I wouldn't want to interrupt their meal." And when the headmaster scoffed at that, Canada added, "And I really should be leaving for Ontario by the morrow." And with that, he left.

As he was about to get into his carriage, someone tugged as his coat. He glanced down.

It was a small boy, wrapped head to toe by an oversized sweater. His cheeks looked frostbitten, and his hands gloveless. "Can I help you?" was Canada's first instinct to say.

"Could you give food? I am hungry," the child muttered. Canada raised an eyebrow.

"Aren't you joining the other kids for supper?"

"Scary bald teacher say not allowed. I can't eat, for cheating. I have not eat for week."

Canada furrowed his eyebrows. The headmaster is not letting this child eat for a week? Cheating is no excuse to starve a child. "I don't have any food on me. I'm sorry."

Canada reached to open the carriage door, but was then stopped again. "But pretty lady said man with curly yellow hair will feed me!"

_What?_ Canada paused, "And who's this pretty lady?"

"She tall, and has fluffy dress. It has lots of colors. Also has looong hair, and more fluffy thing on her head."

"I'm sorry, but I have no idea who she is."

"She speaks my language too!" the kid suddenly exclaimed. "Teacher tell us not to speak it. But I heard big kids speak it. Think it's _Objeewa?_

_Ojibwa?_

"Tell me kid, what's her name?"

The kid pondered for a while, before answering with, "She tell me name is _Objeewa_."

* * *

_June 11, 2008_

As Canada took a seat in the parliament, he thinks back on the promise he had made long ago, forgotten until now. His eyes are downcast on his lap, waiting for his boss to appear.

He feels angry. Guilty. Bitter. And a myriad of other emotions he cannot pinpoint.

People fell silent as Stephen Harper walks up to the podium, and beings.

"The treatment of children in Indian Residential Schools is a sad chapter in our history."

_I'm sorry._

**The title was taken from the quote "Basically, the goal [of residential schools] was to take the Indian out of the child" - Matthew Coon Come, Chief of the Assembly of the First Nations**


End file.
